


Fiddly Digits, Itchy Britches

by alby_mangroves



Series: Yuletide Stories [4]
Category: Frank (2014)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Time, M/M, Multi, Sexual Experimentation, Threesome - F/M/M, Unsafe Sex, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:26:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alby_mangroves/pseuds/alby_mangroves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We will never be together,” Clara had said, but here they were again, fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiddly Digits, Itchy Britches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salvadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvadore/gifts).



> Many thanks to M, E, MJ and M-H for all their help and to MJ, Cher + partner for the French translation ♥
> 
> Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> See end notes for explanations on some of the tags used.

~f~

“We will never be together,” Clara had said, but here they were again, fucking.

Or . . . well. Jon was once again being unceremoniously fucked into the fibreglass seat of the spa, water slapping up his torso accompanied by the gentle tune of air bubbles spewing gaily from the vents. The scene seemed at odds with itself. Jon didn’t think he’d see a spa as a place of relaxation ever again.

Tomorrow his tailbone would complain like a bastard, but Jon would deal with it when he had the brainspace. For now, he was focused on the dilemma of whether Clara would thumb fuck his eyeballs if he put his hands anywhere on her person.

Best just to keep them out of the way and try not to get his nut before she was done. Watching her tits bounce as she rode him wasn’t helping. He closed his eyes.

Should he feel resentful about being used like this? Jon didn’t know. His cock didn’t feel conflicted, so at least that was a good thing, he supposed.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut harder and tried to call to mind a visual playlist of Things to Not Come By, but seeing as he’d never had to use one before, failure was probably imminent.

~f~

“C'est ton tour,” Baraque said, shaking his head, projecting an absolutely unfair amount of disappointment. Jon had no fucking idea what the guy was on about, until Baraque pointed at the sinkful of dirty dishes.

“What? But that's not— it can’t be my turn! I did them yesterday!”

“Pourquoi sont-elles encore toutes sales, alors?”

“I don’t know what you're—”

Jon looked from the stack of dishes to the kitchen doorway as the others filed past it, Frank leading the herd out the front door, embarking on an expedition to hunt down nature’s elusive instruments to complement the synth Frank had been banging their heads against for days.

Baraque glared at him. Jon took a wild guess.

“Because we only have seven cups and five plates?”

Baraque nodded sagely, like Jon had just uncovered a universal truth. And then he left too.

“I did them yesterday,” Jon muttered to the empty cabin, filling the sink with sudsy water.

He just about jumped out of his skin when a good shove from behind sent his hip on a collision course with the bench. Too startled to offer anything other than a strangled yelp, he yielded when he felt someone press into his back, teeth set to biting at his earlobe. Clara’s scent corkscrewed in and his guts went hot with the memory of her slick grip on his cock.

“Jesus Christ, I think you scared actual shit out of me,” he said, hanging on to the edge of the bench as she pushed him bodily into it. “I only brought two pairs of pants so I’d appreciate it if—”

“Shut. Up,” she muttered, which was mildly ironic considering she’d just rendered him speechless anyway by sneaking her hand down to his groin and kneading like she had to shape a cock out of the denim. His actual cock obliged her soon enough. “Shut up, shut uuuuuup.”

“Nngh,” he said, just to be contrary.

Nibbling at his shoulder blade, she ground against him from behind.

“I thought you said we’d never be together but here you are, sneaking away for a mmmmmmphfff—”

Clara grabbed his whole face and pulled him backwards, off-balance, and he stumbled to an awkward stop between her legs. She was leaning back on the edge of their little kitchen table. Her top clung to her nipples on every inhale, the fabric of her skirt pulled taut between her thighs.

“We won’t,” she said, and yanked him by the beard till he had a mouthful of warm tit, and oh, weren’t they nice tits, oh yes, yes.

He sucked them through her shirt till they were as angry as he was, hard wet spots on either side of her chest. “You need to learn to use your words,” he mumbled around a nipple. Clara’s response was to give his beard a merciless tug, leading him down, down.

He hissed at the sting but only until his face was under her rucked-up skirt and he was breathing her in, big, sucked-in lungfuls of her, mouthing at her thigh.

“You’re such a fucking barnacle,” she said, then clutched his hair and rode his face till he managed to nose her white panties out of the way and went at it with a groan, burying his face and fingers in her pussy.

For a little while it was just this, just Clara holding his head still so she could use his mouth, and he let her have it. He fucked her with his whole face, his lips and his tongue and his nose, felt her writhe and listened to her pant, thinking he’d never understand her, not ever.

At some point he’d unzipped his jeans and got his fist around his cock and it was all just great, fantastic, amazing, till she almost pulled out a fistful of hair while yanking him out from between her thighs. She looked down to where he was pumping his cock, then back up at his face, piercing him with big, betrayed eyes.

“What the fuck? Oh no you don’t,” Clara gasped, then pushed him down, seated herself on his cock and rode him into the floor until all these sounds, all these _noises_ he didn’t know he had in him were squeezed out in a rush and they were both boneless. She flopped over him, a dead weight.

He was still breathless when Clara stiffened above him.

Opening his eyes, he followed her line of sight to where Frank stood very still in the doorway.

Slowly, the door slipped shut, muffling his receding footsteps.

“Fuck. _Fuck._ ” Jon ran his hand through his hair and tried to wrap his mind around it all. Clara braced herself on his chest and pushed up to her feet.

“I thought he was out! I thought you were all— Fuck!”

He tucked himself back in with shaking hands and sat up, feeling like he’d just gone a couple of rounds with an immovable object. Should he be feeling quite this guilty? Was the guilt about Frank or about Clara? Jon’s brain ached.

“What do we—”

He envied the strength and precision of her punch. It sent him straight back to the floor, a good vantage point from which to watch her smoothing her skirt over her thighs as she walked away.

~f~

That afternoon, a fog settled on the lake, adding to the cabin fever they were all sweating with.

Everyone had returned from the forest and they’d spent the day fucking around with found objects: pine cones and sticks and animal bones. Clara was acting like Jon didn’t exist. Which was perfectly normal.

Frank was. . . no more and no less Frank than he had ever been.

Jon tested his jaw just to make sure it had all actually happened.

The bruise pointed to yes.

~f~

He saw them talking that night by Clara’s theremin and would have thought it was their usual musical mind meld — which he didn’t resent at all, no — but the way they synchronised looking him up and down told him otherwise. Clara’s expression was appraising. Jon would have given his left nut for Frank to vocalise his.

Jon stared at Frank. Frank’s head stared right back.

Clara’s hand performed its dance and the theremin wailed accusingly as she resumed her whispering. Frank nodded, the enormous head bobbing.

Jon went out to take a piss, sent a tweet — @jonburroughs83 If I don’t check in tomorrow you’ll know Clara stabbed me in my sleep — and went to bed.

~f~

“He wants to watch.”

Jon jumped, almost braining himself on the door of the cupboard he’d just opened. Outside, the rain which had been steadily falling all day, loud enough to hide Clara’s footsteps, intensified, beating mercilessly against the window. The house was still and dark around them.

“Jesus— Why can’t you talk to me like a normal person? You don’t have to sneak up and— What?”

“He wants to watch us have sex.” She hissed the sibilants like a gleeful snake.

“What? Who?”

Clara stared at him, waiting. Carefully, Jon closed the cupboard and turned to face her, his errand to fetch a glass of water all but forgotten.

“Frank. Frank wants to watch us have sex.” Now there was a sentence he never thought he’d say. The rain was loud and they were alone in the kitchen — as far as he knew, everyone was already asleep — but Jon lowered his voice anyway. It wasn’t the most bizarre conversation he’d had in the past few months, not even the weirdest one he’d had with Clara, but it was the principle of the thing, wasn’t it. One didn’t just . . . talk about. It.

She nodded slowly, pursed her lips and blew cigarette smoke in his face. It swirled blue grey in the poorly lit kitchen, curlicues filling the conical lampshade overhead.

“Oh.” Jon wondered where all his spit had gone. It was there just a moment ago.

Frank wanted to watch. Jon’s stomach coiled uncomfortably. Frank was at the center of everything they were trying to accomplish out here in bumfuck nowheresville. He was the reason Jon hadn't even thought twice about using his savings to fund the making of the Soronprfbs album.

It had taken all of two minutes of a bollixed pub gig for Jon to identify Frank as a creative mentor, someone to emulate, to look up to. Frank surprised him every single day. He made Jon want to be more. Made him want to be someone Frank could like. Perhaps even respect.

He was funny and weird and Jon wanted to skip through his unique mindscape and rub himself all over Frank’s effortless genius, revel in its shocking, organic beauty on a daily basis. Absorb it by osmosis.

If he was honest, there were more than a few nights he’d gotten off to thoughts of rubbing himself all over Frank the man, as well.

He wondered how much fitness fanatics would pay to know that the secret to a perfect body was a diet consisting entirely of Grownut, and jumping about on the lawn like some kind of demented, cardigan-wearing sprite.

And Clara . . . well. Apparently, Jon liked creepyhot. She watched him, smoke seeping from her nostrils, her mouth red and shiny. He swallowed dryly. Apparently, he liked creepyhot a lot.

“Okay.”

Clara became very still, a dirty halo of lazy smoke curling around her. “Okay?”

“Well, unless you don’t. I mean. What did you. Uh.”

“I want to,” she said, dropping his gaze and looking away. She dragged the remaining life from her cigarette, then methodically butted it out. Jon blinked. It was the first time she’d shown him any kind of vulnerability. He didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Okay, so how. When. I mean.”

She clicked her tongue, grabbed a fistful of his jumper and pulled him out of the kitchen and into the darkness of her room. She left the door open a crack. They were alone in her private place and suddenly Jon was very, very nervous.

Clara’s room was small, the bed pushed into the corner. It was draped in a white throw. Someone had left the outside light on and it illuminated the raindrops sliding down her window, casting the reflection inside. The room smelled faintly of patchouli; it clung to the walls and flavoured the air, as it always did with Clara’s skin, her hair. She didn’t turn on the lamp.

“Are we doing it right now? Because I’m not sure if I can just, you know. On command.”

Clara looked at him like he was dirt on her shoe and a shiver worked its way up his spine.

“Oh, really.”

She pushed him to sit on the bed, stood between his knees, and one by one she popped the buttons of her vintage blouse, looking at him with that familiar cool disdain. Jon dug his fingers into his legs, watching projections of raindrops slide down the canvas of Clara’s chest.

Okay then. Perhaps on command wasn’t so bad.

Maybe they could practice. Frank would watch them fucking at some point, see Jon and Clara naked and vulnerable, watch them from the inscrutable one-way mirror of his head. There would be no feedback from the head, no cues. Frank would be _observing_ them.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, gasping at the sudden thickening in his trousers. When he opened them, Clara had drawn open the wings of her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. His heart thudded in his throat.

“Why are you being so . . .”

She paused with her chest half unveiled, the light fabric of her shirt caught on her nipples. Jon flicked his tongue over his lip and searched for the right word. “Gentle?”

He didn’t quite know what to make of it, being seduced with this sensuous strip. He’d come to expect a clubbing over the head before she dragged him to the floor and had her way with him. He’d not expected to see her lair. It wasn’t impossible that she might bite off his head after she’d had him.

Clara didn’t respond. When he looked up, he found her face slightly inclined towards the doorway, lashes dark against her cheeks, and then he knew. Thrilling cold fingers creeped up his spine.

She wasn’t just taking this for herself, that was the difference. She was giving it, too. Giving this to Frank.

Silently — both of them carefully _not_ looking at the sliver of light in the widening gap of the doorway — Clara pulled Jon forward and nestled his face between her naked breasts.

It was the most awkward moment of his life, and that was saying something; Jon was very much used to awkward moments. The weight of eyes sat on him like sticky heat, making blood pump madly through his body, throbbing in his groin, turning his hands clammy with sweat.

Until this moment, this gloriously horrible moment, he’d had no idea this was his thing. He’d never been in a situation to find out before. He pressed his nose, his mouth, to Clara’s chest, relishing the burn of being watched. When he glanced up at her face, Clara was gazing at the doorway through slitted eyes.

He rubbed his bearded cheek against her nipple, then pressed his ear to her chest to feel the gasp reverberating inside her.

The sliver of light narrowed gradually until the door of Clara’s bedroom snicked shut.

A strange sort of haze descended over Jon’s brain. He felt feverish and unbound, floating out of his head. Caught between the sweetness of Clara’s skin and the hair-raising sensation of Frank watching them, he wondered how he hadn’t seen this coming, hadn’t gone after it earlier.

The two of them had pinged his radar again and again; he knew how Clara felt about Frank. The way their minds would meet in out-of-the-way creative places with so little effort, it was like they weren’t even trying; their music spoke the same language.

He’d thought he resented Clara for her open animosity, but Jon was an adult; he could call jealousy a spade. The problem was that he didn’t know which of them he was most jealous of.

He and Clara had fucked several times now, but this was different; they’d never been like this.

Frank’s silent presence in the room electrified them, made them glow. Clara had thrown her head back and Jon knew she felt it too, the charge in the air that made everything new.

When her hands found his ears, he let her guide him to her nipple. He took it between his lips and relished her quickened breath and the line of her exposed throat above him. He’d never seen her so unguarded.

“You can touch me, if you like,” she said quietly, and Jon knew those words weren’t for his benefit. He couldn’t believe they were going to do this. That they were _doing_ this.

He edged up on the bed until his feet were dangling over the side and leaned back on his elbows, watching Frank come closer to stand beside the bed in his usual frumpy cardigan and his hands fisted at his sides. He wished he knew what Frank was seeing when he looked at them, Jon reclining on the bed with his jeans tented and Clara half unwrapped.

Clara slipped out of her skirt; it pooled on the floor between Jon’s feet along with her underwear. Her bush was a dark triangle, stark against her skin even in the near darkness. She took Frank’s hand and gently directed him to sit, and Jon’s stomach fluttered with the nervous thrum of excitement as the bed dipped beside him.

He hurried to shuck his jeans, kicking them aside just as Clara climbed up onto the bed, then pulled his jumper up but before he could take it off, Clara’s careful knees were hemming him in, keeping him close between her thighs. She liked it on top, he knew, and god, _yes_ , he thought, as she braced against him and lowered herself with a low moan, he liked it like this, too. The jumper could fucking well wait.

“Oh,” Frank muttered, slowly shifting beside them. “Clara, are you. . .?”

Clara nodded, eyes slipping shut on a downstroke even as her mouth slackened and Jon clenched his teeth, a grunt squeezed out of him by the hot clutch of her body. “Yeah,” she breathed, “I’m okay, I’m— _oh!_ ”

Jon slid his hand beneath her shirt and pushed it from her shoulders, sneaking his thumb over her clavicles and the dip at her throat, following the flush of her skin. Above him, Clara smiled and began to move, her perfect, small breasts rising and falling, nipples dark and tight. He drew his hand down her chest to feel her hot skin pebble.

The pull of the abyss was just beyond the ledge they were all standing on. He wasn’t surprised that it was Clara who pushed them over it.

She reached for Frank’s hand and slowly brought it to her breast. Tentative, Frank held it in the loose cage of his spread fingers, her nipple caught between them. Her opened shirt floated like gauze around her body, the air of Clara’s small room thick with tension.

“God, I love your tits,” Jon whispered under his breath, loving how Frank’s big hand looked holding her there, too. Jon splayed his hand over her belly, the roll of her hips hypnotic to watch and creamytight inside. He groaned and gripped her hips, still half expecting to be punched in the face.

“She’s not going to punch you in the face,” Frank said. “I think she secretly likes it. Especially your big mouth.”

“I fucking don’t,” she grumbled.

Jon smiled and lay back on the bed. “I don’t mind, as long as she doesn’t break anything.”

“Shut up,” Clara said. He suspected it was purely out of habit. She dug her fingers into the softness of Jon's belly but valiantly he didn’t cry out.

“Your tits are perfect and I really like them, and if I want to tell you then I’ll fucking tell ymmmmmmmf,” he said even as her hand closed over his mouth and her hips almost pushed him over the edge with their lazy, rhythmic slide. When her fingers slipped into his mouth, he folded his tongue around them and licked the salt from her skin, hoping Frank was watching; one could never tell with the head. A surge of boldness made him look up and suck, hollow his cheeks around her fingers, going hot and tingly all over at Frank’s muttered, “Shit, _shit_.”

Clara gasped and worked her fingers in and out of his mouth. “Maybe we’ll need to find something else to stuff in here to shut you up,” Clara said, looking sideways at Frank through heavy-lidded eyes. The pads of her fingers rubbed slowly against Jon’s tongue. He groaned at the sudden pooling of heat in his belly, aching at the thought.

When he had control of his brain again, Jon would thank whatever stars had converged to make the three of them fit like this, but for now he just had to hang on. Somehow it had already escalated from Frank wanting to watch them to the three of them in bed together and fuck it, in for a penny, in for a pounding, as the saying went if one was super lucky to score a threesome and not cock it up.

Jon searched for a trace of Frank through the head’s mesh inserts. What was Frank feeling right now? Was he okay? Was this what he’d wanted or were they moving too fast?

“You can touch me, too,” Jon said, taking Frank's broad palm and stroking it, finding it cool and clammy. Frank was nervous. Gently, Jon threaded their fingers together. “However you like. I want you to.”

"My ginger bird," Frank said, letting Jon caress his hand, their fingers sliding against each other. “I like your nest. A thick thatch to keep your face warm and safe from parasites.” He let go of Jon’s hand and threaded his fingers through Jon’s beard like maybe he’d been wanting to do that for a while.

Clara fucked him easy and slow as though she wanted to make it last somehow too, to make it good for Frank, who’d wanted this. Who’d asked them for it. Jon was struck by the thought that there wasn't anything she wouldn't give for Frank. Nothing she wouldn't do. In that moment, he knew exactly how she felt. A surge of protective fondness flooded him all the way to a sudden lump in his throat.

Undoubtedly sensing his weakness, Clara chose the moment to grind down hard, making his balls draw up tight and his gut heat with sudden spikes of pleasure. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, feeling shell-shocked, strung out and barely holding on.

A sheen of sweat dampened Jon’s belly. Frank had stretched out on the bed beside him, had tucked himself nice and close. Jon could feel him like a lick of heat all along his side, the weight of his hand still on Jon’s chest, fingers tangled in his beard. Was the head heavy? Did it get uncomfortable? Frank gave no sign either way.

“Oh god,” Clara moaned and Jon followed her line of sight to see Frank’s cock hard inside his trousers. She put her hand on it and Frank cursed, fisting his hand in the bedding. Wanting to help and a bit desperate to see Frank’s cock, Jon tried not to unseat her as he hurried to help her unzip Frank's trousers, their hands tangling and knocking against each other in their rush to take him out of his pants, and— oh. _Oh_.

“Won the genetic lottery there, mate, fucking hell,” Jon said, swallowing dryly.

In a surreal moment, he and Clara looked at each other like startled stoats. Wordlessly, she braced both hands on Jon’s chest and started fucking him in earnest, watching him slowly close his fist around Frank’s huge dick. He gave it a squeeze and Frank nearly bucked off the bed with a strangled moan that made Jon’s gut clench with want.

“Fuck,” Clara gasped, her dark lips drawn back to show teeth, watching Jon slowly jerk him.

“You’re lovely,” he said, awed, meaning both of them. Braced above him, Clara’s sex-hurt eyes were locked on where the swollen head of Frank’s dick was pushing through the tight ring of Jon’s fingers, slippery with precome, and Frank was muttering something, prose, poetry, spinning word fragments out like he could never turn it off, like every single sight and thought and sensation was worth preserving. He'd dug his fingers into Clara's leg, completing the circuit by connecting them all.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut and searched frantically through his file of Things to Not Come By but it was hopeless, the tight, slippery clench of Clara around his cock taking him over so sweetly, the familiar pull already gathering deep in his gut.

In his hand, Frank's thick cock started to pulse and Jon wanted so badly to taste its texture in his mouth, wanted to tuck Frank into his cheek. He gave a few more frantic tugs and Frank's body bowed off the bed as he spurted through Jon's fist, a raspy, drawn-out moan muffled inside the head. "Fucking hell," Jon gasped, barely hanging on, and then Clara lifted off him to jerk him with her hand, watching him as he tumbled over, insides molten and bright, his head thrown back on a shout, shooting ropes of come over his belly and chest. Bloody _god_ , he thought, when he could think again, glowing with residual pleasure all the way to his fingertips. _Bloody fucking god_ and _shit fuck yes, yes, YES._

Clara collapsed on the bed beside him. He waited for his pounding heart to slow a little, then crawled up between her legs to where she tasted of their sex, fitted in close, held her down by the hips and didn’t let up until she was bucking against his face, closing her thighs over him in a hot flesh vise. Even then, he worked her with his mouth until she kicked at him and squirmed away, panting, “Enough, god, fuck off.”

Jon rolled away and rubbed at where her foot had connected with his face. She really had unerring aim.

“I’m glad to see you still enjoy my pain,” he muttered, elbowing his way up the bed to slump among their limbs.

“I didn’t want this to change things between us,” Clara deadpanned, still a little breathless.

Frank barked muffled laughter and stretched out along Jon's back, his body heavy and lax and totally unconcerned with personal space. Jon felt the hard curve of Frank’s head rest unyieldingly along his back. He bumped his shoulder into it, rubbing against it like a cat.

He fitted his hand around Clara's ankle and she flexed in his grip, wiggling her toes, painted glossy dark like her mouth. He looked up and smiled at her and she pretended not to notice. Behind him, Frank's hand rested lightly on Jon's naked hip.

"Satisfied grin?" Jon asked quietly, drawing a vague circle around their heads.

"You're an idiot," Clara said.

Frank’s head bobbed and his voice sounded rough. “I don’t even know what to call this expression.”

What a picture they'd make right now, Clara with her neat, short bob a fucking mess for once and her legs akimbo, Frank’s head with its startled eyes staring at nothing and spent cock poking obscenely out of his flies, and Jon with his moon-tanned bottom half on display but his jumper still on, beard glistening wet.

He grinned and closed his eyes.

None of them seemed to be in a hurry to move.

~f~

**Author's Note:**

> NB: Story features canon-typical violence between Clara and Jon while they are in a casual sexual relationship. Unprotected sex (no condoms) happens (Clara is assumed to be taking contraceptives). Some ableist language/thinking may occur. Canonical mental health issues.
> 
>  _C'est ton tour_ \- It's your turn  
>  _Pourquoi sont-elles encore toutes sales, alors?_ \- Why are they all dirty again?


End file.
